


Hotel Nights

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has anxiety disorder, so when Joe shows interest, he's more than eager to tell him about his emotions. But Joe doesn't like Patrick's newfound clinginess, and has finally had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotel Nights

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS GARBAGE COMPLETE JUNK I HAVEN'T WRITTEN IN THREE MONTHS

Hotel nights were Patrick's relief.

While touring, he never got a break; most of the day he was in concert, doing interviews, or  _preparing_ for all of that. Some days they don't even stay in hotels, just the bus. Do you know how hard it is to get used to showering in a moving automobile after showering in a completely still house for a year? It's not fucking easy. The soap flies out of his hands, he usually falls out of the tub and has to have Andy come laugh at him before helping him up and icing his bruises with an energy drink. It's not easy performing a two-hour long show with a twisted ankle, but that's beyond the point. Let's just say, being a celebrity isn't all it's cracked up to be. When he told his friends at the time he wanted to be a singer they said he was  _'cheating_ _'_   because performing concerts and being a musician wasn't 'real work', whatever that means, but it is. Patrick has lots of trouble even still, trying to get the chords right in a new song or having trouble with the vocals. The popularity was like being homecoming king at prom, but ten times worse - the whole world is on a first-name basis with you. It's insanely tough having the world at your fingertips, but that doesn't mean Patrick doesn't  _adore_ it.

Anyway, as you can see, after all this, Patrick likes to sleep in a real bed after a while. When he lays in those sheets (usually sharing a room with Andy or Pete), all his troubles sink into the silk fabric, and he's okay for one fucking night until he hits the road again.

But, recently, hotel nights have been getting  _much_  more enjoyable for Patrick.

Just recently, while touring Folie a Deux, Joe started talking to him more. At first, Patrick wasn't sure exactly why the tall (5'10", not like Patrick cares much) man took such an interest all of a sudden in him. But he wasn't against it. Joe had always been a good friend, but they never really hit it off as much until just recently. It all started in (you guessed it) a hotel room.

Joe had decided he'd share a room with Patrick this evening, just to change it up from the normal apparently. But Patrick guessed Andy challenged Pete to an all-nighter of Super Smash Bros and didn't wanna have to do it in the lobby. Nonetheless, they settled in quickly. Joe made casual conversation about how this wasn't one of their best hotels, that they've had much nicer and that the little soaps were just plain Dove rather than some no-named rose carved red looking bar. Patrick nodded in agreement, for some odd reason allured by the tall guy talking about the debauchery of carved soaps. After a few minutes of Joe taking a shower, he emerged in a towel and rummaged through the suitcase on his bed - Joe packed extremely light for some reason. Patrick's almost sure he's worn the same shirt twice in a row in the past week.

Patrick couldn't seem to take his eyes off Joe. His hair sticking up in all different directions as one strong hand grabbed the bunched fabric of the towel to give him some sort of cover in the mixed, horny-crazed exposure that was radiating from Patrick's eyes as the other pushed and tossed clothing, looking for a pair of boxers. Patrick swallowed nervously as if he'd been teleported back to high school. His mind fogged with almost puberty-driven rude thoughts, the kind that make you stutter around a girl in a short skirt for some odd fucking reason. Patrick cursed himself and tried to look at other things, eyes shifted from his loose laces on his dirty, muddy sneakers, then to the TV playing some sort of local news channel, then out the window (dark from the extremely late night). And the worst thing fucking happened then - Joe tried to make fucking conversation.  _Shut the fuck up_ , Patrick said to himself. _You disgusting guitar-punk-rock-Jesus offbreed._

"I messed up the chords last night," he said, almost disappointed in himself. Patrick raised an eyebrow he knew the naked man couldn't see. Patrick thought last night's performance was flawless, but apparently, he had other thoughts.

"Care to elaborate?" Patrick's words spewed out of his quivering lips a lot quicker than intended. In a breath, the stuttery, shaky words spilled from his teeth like gourmet fucking vomit, giving away all cover of confidence he had in him. Joe was nice, though - pretended he didn't notice. _Joe was the **man**_ , Patrick thought.  _Why don't I hang out with him much?_

"During I Don't Care," he confessed. "Messed up the chords. Fumbled a bit. I shouldn't have done that. If anything, like, you did perfect - I ruined the whole song." 

The man's sad tone suddenly sent a electric lightning strike of sadness that hit him right in the heart. Despite Joe's nakedness, and Patrick's horniness, somehow he managed to fucking tear up a bit. It made Patrick more upset than confused about how a guy like Joe could fuck him up that bad. It wasn't even in a sexual way, to be honest. Just,  _holy fuck, there's a person out there that does that to him_.

"Dude." Patrick said, still refusing to eyeball the man's godly-chiseled figure, but still managing to put some sort of sympathy in his tone. "Your fingers were on the verge of bleeding. I think you're excused."

Joe didn't care to add on. He grabbed his clothes and walked towards the bathroom, leaving the room in complete silence, and for some reason, Patrick felt relieved. He leaned back into the bed, took out his phone and brought up twitter, posting some things, offering Q&A and answering a few before Joe came back out, plum hair tamed and combed. He was looking quite attractive in his cut-off sleeve shirt, and plaid pajama pants (you could see the elastic in his boxers, but that was just an observation - Patrick definitely wasn't staring). He also looked like he was ready to pass out. Patrick was on his way as well. He watched as the man dimmed the lights, turned the television volume down to 3, so you could barely hear the news reports,  and crawled underneath the large silky sheets. 

"Going to bed?" Patrick yawned, looking over at the man who seemed to be drifting off already. He let out a laugh as his friend just groaned. "Goodnight, then."

"Hm. Night," he mumbled into the pillow, "I love you."

"What?"

But the man was already asleep. Patrick guessed his mind was playing tricks on him - he had been up for about twenty-four hours, and you can't trust a sleep-deprived man. Eventually, he went to bed, and everything fell back into place.

 

Over the course of the next month or two, Joe always slept in Patrick hotel room. Patrick found that Joe wasn't too bad of a friend, despite the fact he usually walks around in loose pajama bottoms and no shirt on, and Patrick likes to think with his dick sometimes, he was a good-advice giver. Sometimes, Patrick would wake him up in the night by tossing a unused, cold pillow at him.  _"What?_ " Joe would groan, making Patrick feel proud of himself as he told him about how nervous he was for the next show, or that he was feeling bad about a previous one.

 _"I spilled water on me last night,"_   Patrick would say.

 _"That bottle attacked you,"_ Joe would comply,  _"Fuck that water bottle. You deserve better."_ And then they'd fall back to sleep. That's the kinda friend Patrick needs.

But, as their friendship grew, Patrick seemed more invested in it than Joe was. Joe would always let go of their hugs first, when Patrick lingered - Joe started avoiding him on stage rather than Patrick being close to him, whispering things like 'play the next line like this, Fro-man'. He wasn't sure if it was his mind doing shit like this, but he knew something was wrong when Joe ignored him when he woke him up at night.

Let it be known, when Patrick has to physically get up and shake someone awake instead of tossing a pillow, he's feeling really fucking bad about something. In Patrick's eyes, this was the worst fucking crisis in history. He just needed to get up and confess all to Joe, like they've done for the past touring session as a whole. He's never had a friendship like that before, where the other would willingly get up and listen to his babbling until they both inevitably fell asleep. So when Patrick had it in his mind that he was having his eighteenth mental breakdown that night, he  _had_ to toss his hotel pillow over to wake him up. Not  _wanted_ to, this was a dire fucking situation, because apparently Patrick thought he figured out Davinci's fuckiing Code and he just  _had_ to tell his little plum.

But instead, Joe didn't move when his soft, plush pillow collided with his tattooed arm. Patrick waited for a second, using a weak, tired arm to hold himself up, squinted in the dark to find any clues that he was stirring awake, per usual, but only a shift, and then a settle. That caused a little bit of panic. The brewing fucking anxiety Patrick had in him wouldn't go away without Joe to tell him some stupid joke and make it better. Maybe it wasn't hard enough to wake him up, Patrick thought as he grabbed his own, personal Save Rock and Roll album cover pillow a fan gave him, chucking it at Joe, but missing and hitting the side of his bed. Patrick now was out of pillows, his skin crawling and burning with an anxiety attack. He shakily swung his legs over the bed, socks meeting the wooden hotel floor, tiptoeing over to Joe's bed and shaking him lightly, whispering things like  _"Joe. Joseph, please. Please, please wake up."_ Eventually the man sat up, furiously and exhausted. He looked at Patrick with daggers that made him whimper nervously. _  
_

"What? It's three in the morning, Trick." Joe groaned, "Don't tell me it's another anxiety attack. It can't be two in one day - that's just over the fucking limit, man."

"W-What?" No! That's not- I'm sorry!" Patrick quickly looked down at his hands, pulling down the red-and-black striped sleeves to his palms to keep his nails from digging in and causing cuts. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Can you do it in the morning, at least? Trick, I haven't gotten a wink of sleep. I'm exhausted. What? Is it something important?" Joe said, rubbing his eyes tiredly (something that seemed almost childish to Patrick), then pulling the blanket closer to his broad frame. 

Patrick thought about the things he was going to tell him. That he was thinking about his feelings, that his depression was worsening, he was started to think things that made him miserable in the past. That he was thinking about the windowsill, tormenting memories of his depression - then the thoughts about him and Joe's relationship, that Patrick realized that he had been harboring  _feelings_ for Joe for god knows how long. Months, years - it was like it'd been there forever. Patrick bit his lip to keep it from quivering, and then met Joe's mahogany eyes, feeling some sort of comfort, as he spoke the biggest lie ever. "No, it's fine."

This made Joe smile, like he could finally get some sleep. Joe ruffled Patrick's hair like he was a child, "Good! I'm glad. Get some rest, okay?"

Then they retired. Patrick returned to his bed and had to deal with an anxiety attack all on his own for what seemed like the millionth time in his life - weeping, trying to be as quiet as he could as his skin burned, emotions up and down. Then he fell asleep, but only got an hour or two's rest.

Let's just say, hotel nights weren't Patrick's favorite now. Joe would always ask him before he slept,  _'Do you have something you want to talk about?'_ _  
_

The answer is always the same; _'No.'_

Then they'd sleep, and then wake up, and repeat the process.

Fast forward a couple of days, Patrick has already confessed his emotions for Joe to Andy (he thought it was funny, not because Patrick was gay, but because he chose _Joe,_ out of all people, but was quite acceptive of the whole 'hey, I'm gay, thanks for asking'). Andy then told Pete, which was the most catastrophic thing anyone could ever do. Pete's intentions were usually good, but he had a lot of fucking trouble trying to do what he was thinking. Especially now that their tour had just ended... one slip up, and Joe could leave Fall Out Boy forever. He couldn't do that. He couldn't  _ruin_ that.

One night, they all got drunk at Pete's, ended up all crashing there - it was mostly a blur, but Patrick woke up, got a shower and started making breakfast before he heard a door slam.

"Alright,  _who the fuck_ thought this was funny?" Joe yelled, voice so angry and strong it almost seemed to shake the house. The noise was actually so loud it threw off Andy's equilibrium so much he fell off the stool that stood by the counter. He walked into the kitchen, looking at the both of them as if they were convicts.

"Did what, Fro-ma-" Patrick started, only to be interrupted by daggers being shot at him.

"Don't fucking 'Fro-man' me, Patrick. I don't want to hear another fucking word out of you mouth. You've been talking for six fucking months - shut the  _fuck_ up for once." He yelled, making Patrick suddenly feel singled out. Hearing the poison drip from Joe's lips was... scary, as childish as that sounded. Especially coming from a guy that was mostly calm all the time (you know, that fucking flower-child weed smoker calm, 'go-with-the-flow' dude), as well as a guy Patrick was utterly in love with. The way Joe spited him by calling Patrick out on his ramblings made him suddenly feel guilty for even existing. He felt like everything he was, was hated, at that moment. It sent shivers down Patrick's spine. It wasn't even seven in the morning and Patrick was on the edge of an anxiety attack - he tried remembering where he had his medication, but he couldn't seem to recall where he put it, which just made him start panicking more. He inhaled sharply, he wasn't sure if it was his anxiety or tears that were threatening his eyes, but Joe had an extreme lack of compassion.

"Woah, hey-" Andy said, having picked himself back up again, still kinda sleepy but shocked nonetheless. He held his hands out defensively, like Joe was holding a gun to them, "What's this about?"

"What are you guys yelling at?!" shouted Pete from the living room, him suddenly stumbling in. "Don't break my fucking door, guys, I have to pay for that shit." He giggled sleepily at his own dumb joke. He earned no laughs.

"Was this you, Patrick? Was it? Don't fucking lie to me, you piece of shit. I know you, I can tell when you're lying!" He shouted more, moving closer to Patrick face, making him feel even more cornered and alone.

"What? N-No! I don't know what you're talking about!" He yelled right back, only earning a tightening grip on his arm from an extremely angry Joe. 

"That's bullshit! I know you did this! You're lying! It's not fucking funny, okay?! I understand, it was a joke, but it's  _not fucking funny!_ "

"Joe? Joe!" Pete yelled, pushing him slightly causing him to stumble back, using a hand to balance himself, eyes softening into almost fear - regret? Patrick wasn't sure, because tears were now clouding his sight. Shaking fingers let the sheet of paper Joe was holding drift to the floor, and Pete seemed to suddenly regain consciousness, like he remembered everything that happened the night before.

Joe walked out quickly, probably to go get his stuff and leave. Patrick was shaking with anxiety, but he knew that Pete was responsible. "What did you do?" He asked, between weeps. Pete's eyes were widened. "What did you do!?"

"I told him! I told him how you felt!" Pete shouted back, only making the situation ten times worse. Patrick fell to his knees, ignoring Pete's yelling at him, and Andy running after Joe - the clammering of Pete's dogs, begging to be let outside. Patrick read the letter and it seemed to only bring more tears. Written perfectly in his handwriting - Pete was an expert at that, apparently - was a letter confessing Patrick's 'undying love' for Joe. Signed in his writing. The paper was crumbled, and torn slightly from Joe's fists. Patrick suddenly felt no more tears. Instead, just a hollow void inside filled with only the fire that made his blood boil. He hated Pete. He was absolutely disgusted in him. Joe began to walk out of the house, because he heard the dogs start barking and Andy begging for him to stay over Pete's apologizing - and he knew this was it. This was the pinnacle of how they end. Because Patrick liked to think with his dick - that's how they broke up.

Pete tried helping Patrick up but he just punched him really hard in the face. It was a sloppy one, it was a fist, but it was in a slapping motion, but it could definitely cause enough pain to leave a mark. "I hate you" was the last thing Patrick said to Pete until six months later when they had to start working on their next album.

While this was going on, however, hotel nights seemed less enjoyable. The silk fabric only brought memories of how Patrick was too clingy, too reliable. They tried to get back together but Pete and Patrick ended up in a fist fight, leaving both of them bloody and bruised and a nasty headline or two. Eventually, they 'went on hiatus' - two years of no contact whatsoever with each other. Patrick tried a solo career, so did Pete from the news he heard, but none turned out too well. Patrick saw Joe settled with a girl, had a kid, so did Patrick, but not after completely destroying himself first. Patrick only felt home during hotel nights when he had a bottle of whiskey and only had one bed in the room.

Patrick was completely alone in his hotel, with nothing but the scent of cigarettes, a bottle of booze, the low-volume static noise from a decade-old television, and the memories of the first person he'd ever let himself love.

**Author's Note:**

> GARBAGE JUNK ABSOLULTEY JUNK 10/10 IM A HORRIBLE WRITIER GOODB Y E DREAMS hELL o MCDONALDS


End file.
